About Schmidt - Louis Begley [50]
Schmidtie, will you spend Christmas with us? We have it in Washington, with the grandparents, except that I haven’t been since I met Charlotte. They really want you.
I tell him the truth: it’s more than I can do. (Not the whole truth, because I don’t add: even if I wanted to.) I can’t imagine traveling to celebrate Christmas without Mary, not to a large family gathering, not this year. And I ask him not to worry about me, I won’t lock myself in my room to brood. Possibly, I will go abroad—to someplace without Christmas. This idea just popped into my head. It has merit, if I can think of where to go.
Charlotte again. They have picked a date—the first Saturday in June. A June wedding. Will that be all right? Once again, I weep. She notices right away. I say she mustn’t pay attention, I can’t help being sentimental. It will be a beautiful, romantic wedding with the garden at its very best. A sea of fresh bloom. Probably it’s not a moment too early to reserve the caterer and everything else that goes with it.
This is just as good a moment as any to speak about the house. My heart is in the right place, no trace of resentment, so why not get it over with? She hears me out, without interrupting, and says, Why is this necessary? I mean it’s a very generous present, but from my point of view it won’t change anything for the better, why can’t we remain just as we are?
She is a smart girl. I say the house is too big for me (not true, I like big houses) and it depresses me (true enough, but what house wouldn’t?).
Another whispered, muffled conference between Charlotte and Jon. She says they will call back.
I make another cup of tea. This time, I put rum in it.
The next conversation begins with Jon. He wants to know the financial implications. I tell him they are simple: Charlotte will own the house and almost everything that’s in it now, but once I move out they will have to pay the taxes and upkeep. He wonders if they can afford it—especially as they plan to buy an apartment in the city. I say that’s a fair question, and they should think it through and tell me. Just in case he doesn’t understand the gift and estate tax aspects and, therefore, doesn’t realize how generous this wedding present will be, I explain them to him. He too is smart. By the time you have finished, he asks me, won’t we all be worse off? We don’t need a country house of our own. Forget about the life estate, it’s just a technicality. We’ll come and go just as we do now. In time we’ll help with the expenses.
I tell him they are both terrific. He must let me know about their cash flow. And I say to myself I must really try to figure out how necessary it is for me to go through with this.
That’s done. Of course, I won’t put on them a burden that’s too heavy, but I wonder whether my plan, although born from self-destructive and spiteful feelings, is not, in fact, the best for all of us. With me as the resident janitor/owner/father/censor—or in whatever other order one lists those roles—will they, will I, have a good time? Mary would have made it all right: she and I would have had our life to lead so that I could let Charlotte and Jon lead theirs without it being such an effort for everybody. Which is the real sacrifice, to leave or to stay?
I have some more tea and rum, and begin to feel hungry. Not a fruit or vegetable in the house. Only my dear sardines and Swiss cheese.
The telephone again. This time, Renata Riker. How sweet of me. Next weekend is perfect. Perhaps the children will drive them.
Ciao!
I put on my blue blazer, because it’s Saturday and I am tired of puttering about in a sweater, and drive to O’Henry’s. The place is crowded. I have a bourbon and then another at the bar, standing behind a barrier of unidentified locals